


One for All

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Gang Rape, Gangbang, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape Play, Spanking, dark!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6686149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and his ex-military friends have a nice private orgy with one private detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One for All

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss) for beta-ing!

“Soo,” John drawls, looking up at the tall, dark-haired young man in front of him. “We got you the information you asked for. Time to pay for it, Mr Holmes. Or shall we call you Sherlock? Oh. Maybe you prefer to be called ‘Shezza’, or whatever name you use when you go undercover to seedy establishments like this one.”

John makes a vague gesture around the hotel room, rather dingy indeed.

“Mr Holmes will do,” the arrogant bastard says. In his impeccable, very fitted dark suit, he looks out of place in here. Without it, he would have looked more appropriate if not better, John thinks with a small smile.

John stands a little too close in Sherlock’s private space. The posh sod glares at him sourly but doesn’t back off. Probably because there are two men standing behind him—John’s companions. The tiny room looks a bit overcrowded, but John is used to manoeuvering in tight spaces; he feels quite comfortable.

“Mr Holmes sounds so formal,” John says. “I think I like Sherlock better. It’s unusual. Could be a girl’s name, right, fellas?”

There’s a snort of laughter behind Sherlock’s back, but he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even flinch at the sound, his intent gaze locked on John. Evaluating. It’s nice that he seems to have understood that John is the boss of this motley crew of ex-military men, officially unemployed but very busy nevertheless. Former soldiers are always welcome when it comes to solving delicate problems by indelicate means.

“Back to business,” Sherlock says briskly. “If you need your reward—”

He reaches for his wallet, but John stops him. “Nah, not like that. We’ve discussed the matter with the boys—and we’ve decided that we want a different form of payment.”

“Which will be?” Sherlock prompts, half cockily, half warily.

John shrugs. “Boys need to relax. All work and no play makes us all a bit edgy. We’d be very grateful if you helped us…to get off.”

Sherlock frowns, more perplexed than offended or frightened. “Although I’m flattered by your interest, I must warn you that I consider myself—”

John smiles most nicely. “You might consider yourself whatever you want. Not gay. Too proud to fuck with mere mortals. The thing is, it doesn’t matter. Not to us. We’ll just have you in the arse, and maybe your mouth too, that’s all. It’s up to you if you enjoy it or not. Though I think you’ll enjoy yourself very much. You look like you’re gagging for real men’s attention. Such a tight shirt, such fitted trousers... You present yourself very much like a snugly wrapped prize to be won and unpacked.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment. But that’s not what we agreed to,” Sherlock says slowly, as if he’s still sure he can talk his way out of it. At the same time his gaze darts towards the door. An escape route. No-no, that won’t do. John gives a sign, and his friends grab their prey from behind.

Sherlock struggles in earnest, but he must have underestimated his adversaries. Sholto may have problems with his left hand, but the grip of his right one is tight enough. As for Murray, he’s perfectly fit, though maybe not as impressively muscular. People sometimes get the impression that John is the weakest of the three, because of his limp and his cane that now rests against the wall, and also his not quite prominent height. It’s a rather unpleasant surprise for them when it turns out that a heavy cane can be a deadly weapon and John’s not always limping. Not when he fights anyway.

When Sherlock finally stops thrashing about, having understood the futility of his efforts to break free but far from reconciling with his defeat, John tells him, mentor-like, “Being tall doesn’t mean being strong.”

Sherlock glares at him, still panting heavily from exertion. He looks good like this, disheveled and heated with wrestling.

John takes him by his chin, the glare notwithstanding. “We’re soldiers, remember,” he says amiably. “We’re used to violence. We have no problems with it. But we might avoid it if you behave.”

John slides his hand along the column of Sherlock’s neck and undoes the first button of his shirt. Then the second one. Sherlock jerks again, something close to panic welling up in his gaze, but John’s companions hold him tight.

“Don’t be stupid,” John says as he continues to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. “You’re not going anywhere.”

It’s nice to slide both hands into the folds of the undone shirt and lay them on Sherlock’s waist. His flanks are well-toned and his chest is almost hairless. John wonders if his arse is also pleasantly smooth. Well, it won’t be long until they find out.

John unclasps Sherlock’s belt, pulls it out, and drops it onto the floor. “It’s very reasonable of you that you don’t call for help,” he says. “Firstly, we don’t like shouting, right, boys? We all tend to get a bit nervous, especially Major Sholto, and it never bodes well. Secondly, no one will come anyway, not in a place like this.”

John pops the button of Sherlock’s trousers, then slowly tugs the zip down. He can see the muscles of Sherlock’s abdomen quivering a little. John tugs at the elastic band of his pants. “Let’s take a look… A preview, so to speak… Oh, very nice. Though we’re more interested in your rear end of course.”

He fingers Sherlock’s cock, out of curiosity. It makes Sherlock let out a faint “Ah!” and squirm in Sholto’s and Murray’s grip.

“Sensitive,” John states the obvious, cupping Sherlock’s balls. “Very, very sensitive. We’ll make a perfect plaything out of you. Do I get it right that you’re still a virgin? Forgive my impudence, but I’ve heard some gossip about you. They say you’re married to your work. Shame. But the more fun it will be to break you in. We’ll drill you a pussy where your arsehole was.” He pushes Sherlock’s trousers and pants down. “Turn him over, lads. Onto the bed.”

Soon Sherlock, pressed into the mattress, is freed from his clothes entirely. It takes some effort to take his shirt off because he’s still trying to worm out, and Sholto gets kicked in the shin while fumbling with Sherlock’s shoes, which doesn’t improve his mood in the slightest.

“He hit me!” Sholto says indignantly, almost astonished.

“Naughty,” John chides, grabbing Sherlock by a fistful of hair. “Let’s show him how we deal with wayward prats.”

Some more struggling—and the naked detective is stretched on the bed across John’s lap, his head to the left and feet to the right. Sholto holds his legs, and Murray secures his arms. Sherlock may writhe all he wants, but he won’t escape.

John taps at his buttocks with an open palm, lightly, as a warm-up. Sherlock twitches violently, but he has little room for movement. Besides, Murray twists his arms quite professionally.

John definitely likes the sound of Sherlock growling in frustration. It’s very arousing.

The first real swat—and Sherlock lets out an even better muffled groan.

“That’s not only a punishment,” John explains. “We like to tenderise the meat before we fuck it.”

After two dozen blows, Sherlock’s buttocks become rosy pink.

“Nice colour,” Murray remarks with a laugh.

“Mmm, yes,” John says. “Very…girlish. Wanna take a look at his little pucker? It must be pink too. Oh yes. Just lovely.”

Sherlock squirms in John’s lap as John parts his butt cheeks to show his furled hole, pale pink indeed. Wriggling isn’t a good tactic. John can feel how Sherlock’s cock and balls rub against his bulging crotch, arousing him all the more. Funnily enough, the spanking and a bit of groping seems to have had a similar effect on Sherlock himself. He’s at least half hard.

John’s finger circles Sherlock’s hole, presses in the middle. The orifice twitches, and John pushes harder. “Tight like a virgin ought to be. And responsive like a proper slut. What a precious combination.”

“I’m not—” Sherlock protests, but gasps when John slaps his arse again, hard.

“Not a slut?” John wonders. “Just wait a bit, we’ll make you into one. How do we want him, lads? Back or front?”

There’s a bit of arguing about pros and cons of each position, and then a bit of manoeuvering, and at last, Sherlock is handcuffed to the metal slats of the headboard. John puts two pillows under his arse while Sholto and Murray hold Sherlock’s legs wide apart.

Sherlock clenches when he feels a dollop of lube on his anus. “Easy, easy,” John warns him. “Relax, or it’ll hurt much more.”

John slides his finger further and further in, spreading the lube, slowly rotating the digit until the sphincter muscle eases. “That’s right. That’s a good whore,” John praises him. “How about a little reward? Let’s find your sweet spot, okay? Oh, here it is.”

He works on until Sherlock is appropriately lubed up and whimpering through gritted teeth.

“Do you mind if I go first?” John asks, just for the sake of politeness. Sholto and Murray don’t mind at all. If Sherlock does, that’s his problem.

John hastily unzips his flies and pushes his pants down. His fumbling with the condom is somewhat graceless, but nobody seems to care. Sherlock breathes heavily as the tip of John’s cock batters against him for admission, stretching the virginal pink ring of muscle unbearably wide. John goes torturously slow. He can see that Sherlock clenches his hands into fists as he gets filled, inch by inch, and rattles his head from side to side as if in pointless denial. Maybe it hurts a little. Maybe it’s just uncomfortable. But Sherlock will have to get used to it. Get used to being a fucktoy.

“Right to the hilt,” Murray comments cheerfully when John is all the way in.

Sherlock comments John’s achievement with a stifled, “Mmmfff!” He’s hardly to blame for being incoherent. John is short of breath too, the feeling of warm tightness around his cock maddening. He yearns to thrust in and out, mindlessly, like a mating beast, make his prey howl under him, but he wills himself not to hurry and to savour each moment. He doesn’t want it to be over too soon.

John slides back and forth, watching his cock piston in and out of Sherlock’s dilated hole. His pubes must feel ticklish against Sherlock’s perineum. An amusing thought.

“Hold him wider,” he orders in a husky voice. Sholto and Murray oblige, and his cock sinks in even deeper into the tight heat.

“Ah!” Sherlock cries out, and it finally crushes John’s resolve to go slow. He starts thrusting in much harder, much more brutally, his balls rhythmically slapping against Sherlock’s sweat-slick flesh, the sound accompanied by Sherlock’s soft, sobbing gasps. Precome is drooling from the tip of Sherlock’s cock onto his belly as he wriggles his arse in abandon, either to escape the intrusion or to get more friction, John’s not sure. Maybe Sherlock’s not quite in control of his own body anymore. This writhing sends John over the brink, and he comes violently, clutching at Sherlock’s slim hips, leaving bruises on the delicate skin.

It takes John a few moments to come to his senses. When he finally pulls out, Sholto quickly takes his place, almost shaking with excitement. When he shoves his impressive cock in, none too gently, Sherlock gives a barely audible whimper, but he doesn’t kick or thrash anymore. Murray lets him go, free to get ready for his turn. He shakes his jeans and underwear off impatiently, unable to take his eyes off Sherlock being mercilessly buggered, and starts slowly stroking himself.

John sits down on the bed, close to the headboard. Now he can watch Sherlock’s reactions more attentively. It’s mesmerising, the way he pulls on the handcuffs, the muscles of his arms so taut. The way he squeezes his eyes shut and bites on his lush lower lip. John traces it with a finger, then brushes a sweat-dampened curl from Sherlock’s forehead.

“Enjoying yourself, huh?” he asks quietly. “You see, it’s not that bad, helping men with their needs. Doesn’t it feel nice, having a cock inside you?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, too focused on what’s going on in his nether regions, and John pinches his perked nipple to catch his attention, so harshly that Sherlock cries out.

“You should say ‘yes, sir’, Sherlock,” John reproaches.

“Oh, it’s fucking good,” Sholto breathes out. “He clamped around me. Do it again. Pinch him.”

John does, and Sherlock arches his back and lifts his hips, squirming on Sholto’s cock.

“Fuck yeah!” Sholto roars, ramming into him with savage roughness. John hasn’t seen the Major getting so enthusiastic for quite a while.

In contrast, the expression on Sherlock’s face is not exactly euphoric, more like perplexed, desperate.

“Prostate massage might be very stimulating,” John tells him, running a hand along the strained muscles of his abdomen, up and down, avoiding his neglected semi-erect cock for now. “It feels very intense, doesn’t it? Maybe not entirely pleasurable yet, but give it some time. You’ll get used to being… used.”

He finally condescends to giving Sherlock’s penis a light stroke, teasing and playful in comparison to the violent rubbing against his rectal passage. It makes Sherlock wantonly thrust his hips and moan.

“Yeah,” Sholto grunts again. “Stroke him.”

John spits into his palm and starts fondling Sherlock’s cock, cruelly slow, and it goes into fully erect mode very quickly. It doesn’t take long until Sherlock starts thrusting into his grip, tugging on the handcuffs and twisting on the crumpled sheets. Sholto’s hand clamps hard on Sherlock’s hip, keeping him in place. He rides through orgasmic contractions, grinding balls deep into his fucktoy.

As soon as he’s finished, John abruptly stops handling Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock gives a whine of protest, perhaps unwanted, and it earns him a laugh.

“Wanna come too?” Murray taunts him. “You have to earn it first. Can we flip him over, John? I want to take him from behind.”

After some pushing and shoving, they manage to put Sherlock on his knees and tell him to hold onto the metal railing of the headboard for leverage, or the twisted chain of the handcuffs will pull too hard on his wrists. “We don’t want to damage you,” John tells him and pats his shoulder reassuringly.

The next moment, Murray slaps Sherlock’s buttock. “You could say ‘thank you’, actually. Come on, say it.”

Another slap, and Sherlock mutters, “Thank you.”

One more slap. “Louder.”

“Thank you!”

And one more, this time from John. “I think you forgot something.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sherlock sobs out.

“Much better,” John praises him. “You’re a quick learner. Now, show my friend that you appreciate his attentions. Work with your pretty arse.”

Murray takes his place behind Sherlock, shoves the tip of his condom-sheathed cock past the stretched sphincter muscle, and holds still for a moment, waiting. It clearly takes him some resolve not to start pounding at Sherlock’s arse immediately.

“Sherlock,” John says almost softly. “We’ve been very indulgent so far. It’s better if you don’t make us cross. We know how to break people. It’s not a threat, it’s facts. But you have a choice. Cooperate willingly, and you might enjoy yourself. Just try it. Move your hips back a little. Yeah, right. Like that. See, it’s easy. Now, forward. And back again.”

Sherlock rocks back and forth, his cock drizzling precome onto the sheet. His face is beautifully contorted with need. John feels his own penis twitching in his pants.

“We could move the bed from the wall and fuck his mouth too, through the slats,” Sholto suggests. “I don’t think he’ll mind much.”

John nods. “Probably not.”

Sherlock looks very much engrossed in the process. Beads of sweat adorn his smooth, pale skin. Murray holds him by the hair, tugs at his curls, making him work faster. It’s a fascinating show.

“Could we keep him, Watson?” Sholto muses, loudly, so that Sherlock would hear him. “If we gag him and tie him up, we could throw him into the boot, and no one will ever know. He’ll be a nice decoration for our cellar. It’s not too cold down there, so we could keep him naked. We’d fix a dildo to the wall, make him impale himself on it, and chain him like that, so that he wouldn’t get bored while we’re away. He’d look good on a hook like that.”

“Very tempting,” John admits. “But that’s not what we agreed to.”

Funnily enough, it’s a phrase Sherlock used when they began.

Sholto sighs. “Fine. But I want to take him again while he’s available. Pity that I have to wait a bit. I need to recover.”

“You can finger fuck him while I deal with his mouth, just to keep him occupied,” John suggests. “I’m sure he’ll beg for more soon.”

They leave Sherlock handcuffed and hopelessly erect while they pour some drinks to pass the time, then they move the bed, so that John can stand behind the headboard, in front of Sherlock’s face.

“Ready for another round?” John asks, lowering his pants. “It looks like you are. Open your mouth for me.” He slaps his cock across Sherlock’s lips. “Wider.”

Sherlock gasps when Sholto drips more lube onto his anus and starts rubbing it in, and John shoves himself deeper into the wet warmth.

“If we spread him some more, he could take us both,” Murray tells Sholto, business-like. It makes Sherlock moan around John’s cock, in apprehension or anticipation, and it’s delicious.

Much later, they uncuff the pliant, unresisting Sherlock, exhausted by relentless fucking from both sides, turn him onto his back again, and fondle him everywhere, pumping his leaking cock until he comes shuddering from head to toe.

After that, they lie in bed, spent and sated, all four of them. It takes some time for John to prop up on his elbows and ask, “You’re okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says huskily. His gaze is still not quite focused.

In a few minutes more, he pulls himself up too and gasps when he sits on his well-sodomised arse. It’ll probably hurt for quite a while. Clearly unsure on his feet, Sherlock drags himself to the bathroom. John can hear water running in the shower. It’s probably a good idea, the shower. But it means getting up, and John doesn’t really want to. Sholto yawns and wraps himself against Murray. It looks like they both would rather take a nap. A good idea too.

Sherlock comes back and starts dressing. He does it very quickly, like he’s in a hurry.

“I’ll leave the money on the table,” he says, deliberately not looking in the direction of the bed.

“Wait!” John calls after him, but the door closes behind Sherlock’s back.

Oh hell, it seems that he’ll have to get up after all. His clothes are scattered all over the floor. He can’t find a match to his sock and takes Murray’s.

“Fellas?” he says. “I’m going out.”

“Uh-huh,” Sholto murmurs sleepily.

John is almost convinced he won’t be able to catch Sherlock up, but finds him smoking on the porch. John isn’t quite sure why he left his mates and went after him. Certainly not to ask a stupid question: “Are you really all right?”

“Of course I’m all right,” Sherlock snaps. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

John shrugs. “I dunno. It’s just… It was a bit extreme. Not quite a conventional first time.”

“If that’s your nice way of saying that I’m a freak, thanks, I know it myself. Only a freak could have arranged something like that to lose his virginity. A fake rape. And even paid for it.”

“No, I didn’t mean that I... disapprove or something. I took part in it after all. And I liked it. If you’re a freak, then I’m a freak too. But it’s not the point.” John feels himself blabbering and tries to gather his thoughts. “You might be fine physically—if you say so, okay—but such an intense experience… it messes with your head sometimes. Do you have someone to stay with you for a while? Someone to talk to?”

“Why do you care?”

John sighs. “Because I’m an idiot, apparently. Listen, I’m serious. I’d rather you’re not alone.”

Sherlock sucks on his cigarette and doesn’t answer.

John hadn’t thought what else he wanted to say. To be honest, he hadn’t thought at all when he’d rushed after Sherlock. “Er,” he mutters. “It’s not my business of course, but why all this? Why employ us? With your looks, you could have seduced anyone you wanted, for free.”

John expects a heartfelt “piss off” for an answer, but Sherlock suddenly lets out a bitter laugh. “Me? A thirtysomething virgin? It might be a hot fantasy about forcing one to comply, but in _real_ life, it’s not someone you’d like in your bed. I’ve lingered to the point when it’s ridiculous, being inexperienced. I don’t like being ridiculed. Better a fantasy then, a role play, a scenario set in advance. Everything’s predictable, no one is disappointed. If it’s not just two participants, then it’s not personal. If it’s a rape, than no one cares how I might react. I’m just a sexual object. An object isn’t meant to have experience. Also, it doesn’t expect to be liked, or cared for. It’s better this way.” He pauses to take a drag. “I’m not sure why I’m telling all this to you.”

“Because I’m listening?” John suggests.

For a while, they are silent, until John asks, “At some point, did you want us to stop? For real?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“So on the whole, it _did_ work for you? You liked it?”

Sherlock’s lips twitch as if in pain. “Don’t. Just don’t. Stop acting as if you really care. If you feel like you ought to have concern for me, forget it. It wasn’t a real rape after all. No need for guilt.”

“Why do you think I’d talk to you just because I feel guilty? Can’t I just… offer my company because I want to?”

“Statistically unlikely. I’m not a pleasant person to deal with. I’m prone to bossing people around. Saying unpleasant things. You must have noticed during our negotiations.”

“You may say whatever you want to me, as long as I get to do what I want to _you_ ,” John blurts out.

Sherlock stares at him, unblinking, his cigarette forgotten for a moment. Maybe it’s an unexpected statement for them both.

“Dinner?” Sherlock says finally.

Oh God, yes. “Starving,” John says as nonchalantly as possible.

And then he just follows Sherlock to the main road and lets him hail a cab. He doesn’t care what Sholto and Murray will think. He’ll talk to them later.

“So it’s psychosomatic then. Your limp,” Sherlock says as they sit side by side in the taxi. “You left your cane in the room when you ran after me. But you were shot. In the shoulder.”

Sherlock obviously expects John to ask, curiously, “How did you know?” And of course John doesn’t disappoint him.

Sherlock will be easy to deal with, no matter what he might think.

John really wants to make sure Sherlock is all right. But to be honest—and John always prefers to be honest at least with himself—he also very much hopes for more sex. If he had Sherlock all for himself, it could be very, very nice.

After dinner, it will be only logical to go to Sherlock’s place for a health check. Sherlock must be still sore between his legs. Would he be amenable to spreading them for the considerate military doctor, letting him to inspect the damage? For purely medical reasons of course. And if it leads to something not entirely medical… Oh well. Who’d blame a man for taking his chance?

The idea about the cellar looks worth considering too. But maybe later, John tells himself. Later, when Sherlock gets used to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to visit me on [Tumblr](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com) and check out my novel "Tenderly Wicked" and my paranormal M/M series "The Sons of Gomorrah" :)


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